That's What Friends Are For
by theoneshotter
Summary: Mike and Peter are arguing when they get an uninvited guest. They must put their troubles aside to help a friend in need.
1. Chapter 1

Michael sat down hard in his chair. _It is my chair; see it's got my name on it. _He thought, a grim smile sneaking on to his face. He kicked off his leather cowboy boots, and they clattered loudly when they hit the floor. Throwing his head back and closing his eyes, he hardly noticed.

"Keep it down over there Michael, I have a headache." Peter said coldly from across the room.

"It's those stupid beads, they're too heavy." Michael replied.

"That would give me a neck ache. You should wear some sometime, maybe they'll remind you to _respect your fellow man." _

"For someone who's so into peace, you sure do argue a ton." Michael sat up, taking in his coworker with sleep-deprived eyes.

"It isn't arguing, it's solid reasoning. You're so high strung Mike." His brown eyes closed as he shook is head, wincing from the pain the small movement caused him. "We used to be such good friends, we really respected each other as musicians. What happened?"

"Don't call me Mike. It's Michael. Mike is a stupid TV character in a stupid wool hat. He can't play guitar to save his life, and he's the idiotic leader of an idiotic band who can't pay their rent. He's the one who gets the least votes in the teen magazines, and it's probably because of that dumb hat." Michael paused to catch his breath and light a cigarette.

"Are you finished venting?" Peter asked, a tiny smile playing around his mouth. Mike or Michael, Nesmith was still a hot-as-a-rocket musician from Texas who could kick anyone's ass. A small sigh escaped as he remembered the old Michael.

He had sauntered into the studio, a green wool hat perched on his head and a bag of laundry over his shoulder. An earnest but humble look on his face, he brushed his black hair of his eyes.

Peter was sitting in an armchair, his moccasined feet curled into lotus position. The boots were new, a gift from a fellow musician he had known in Greenwich. They were given to him as a going away gift and a good luck wish before he had hitchhiked to Los Angeles. He had trouble keeping them up around his knees, and he was constantly pulling on the fringe to keep them from slipping down to his ankles. _I need a job so I can eat more, maybe gain some weight. _He often thought. Well, now he had a job. He was the dumb one on a TV show about a band of struggling musicians. He would be able to eat again! He smiled at the thought.

It was that smile that caught Michael's eye.

"Hey there, whatcha smilin' about?" He had asked, trying to make conversation.

"Just thinking about eating well for the first time in months. Roadside musicians don't make much." He had replied. "I'm Peter, who are you?"

"Food? Really?" Here he had chuckled. "I'm Michael Nesmith, musician, songwriter, producer, and now apparently actor. Nice ta meetcha." He stuck out his hand. Peter noticed that one finger wasn't quite in line with the others.

"What happened to your hand?" He asked, taking it and giving it a firm shake.

"Smashed it with a hammer when I was twelve, didn't heal quite right."

"Oh."

"Yeah. You play anything?" Michael asked.

"Anything I can get my hands on. I'm the bass for the show." Peter replied, uncrossing his legs.

"Those are some groovy boots, man." Michael said, eyeing his moccasins.

"Thanks, where're you from?"

"Texas. Dallas. And you?"

"Originally, I'm from D.C, but I grew up in Connecticut and just moved here from New York."

"Dang!" A quick flash of smile twitched across the Texan's face.

"A musician's journey is never through." Peter's smile was big and honest, something Michael would come to appreciate greatly.

But now they could barely keep up a civil conversation. Fame and fortune had spoiled Michael, and his recently discovered affair wasn't helping his failing marriage. The Monkees now had their own friends. They weren't the newbies who stuck together for support anymore.

Davy chased girls all over the city and met up with old Broadway friends. Micky had his acting connections, and his spunky personality made him a hit at parties. Peter was a full out hippie, and his life resembled the life he had led in Greenwich, except now he had money.

Michael and his cowboy boots were moody and sometimes mean. He had threatened to burn his once-beloved wool hat if he had to wear it one more time on the show. He was a true rock 'n' roller, and stayed up to see the sun. If it wasn't extremely necessary to be at work, he would lie in bed until three. Usually, the studio had to send someone to go get him for filming.

"Yeah well, times change. People change." Michael was saying. Peter turned to look at him. The deep purple circles under his eyes matched his own.

"I know what it's like to lose friends, done it plenty of times before." Peter hauled himself to his feet and walked unsteadily to the door. The break room was too full of negative energy, he needed to go crash on a couch somewhere.

"I didn't mean to make you leave man, I'm sorry." He spun around in shock at Michael's sudden change of tune.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!" The shrill scream sent chills up Peter's spine, and was followed by a tremendous crash. Michael leapt out of his chair and as the dust cleared, Peter saw him kneeling by a figure on the ground.

"I'm dying! I'm dying! It's the end! The end, I tell you, THE END!" Micky was yelling his at the top of his lungs and choking on dust at the same time.

"Good GOD Mick, what did you do?" Michael asked, inspecting him for injuries. Peter squatted next to him.

"I think…I think I died…" Micky moaned.

"I doubt that. Where did you come from? You just fell out of nowhere." Peter lifted his head to the ceiling, rubbing his eyes to get out the tiredness and debris. There was a Micky Dolenz-sized hole.

"What's above this, Peter?" Michael asked.

"The attic. Ralfeson said something about them refinishing the floors up there. He told us not to…oh Micky! _What _did you _do?_"

"I uh, went exploring 'cuz I got bored…and there was some fuzzy pink stuff…" He replied sheepishly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to touch the pink stuff? That's fiberglass, and it may look fuzzy, but it ain't. It's full of little pieces of glass and it'll cut up your hands sure as a broken coke bottle!" Michael sighed. "You're too curious for your own good."

"Then why'd I fall through the ceiling?" Micky asked.

"Because the fiberglass was acting as insulation, and all there was between the pink stuff and this room was a little bit of plywood. Let me guess, you walked on it." Peter picked up one of Micky's hands. "There're all the little cuts. Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asked.

"Nope. I'm just shell shocked." He grinned widely. Micky loved making army jokes these days, relishing the fact that he had gotten around being drafted. Apparently, in spite of the fact that he consumed at least twenty pounds of food a day, he was underweight.

"Sure shotgun, you're gonna be feelin' this tomorrow. Up an' at 'em, let's see if you can walk." Michael took one arm, and Peter took the other. Together, they hauled him to his feet.

"MY ANKLE! IT BURNS!" Micky yelled. The sudden outburst caught Peter and Michael off guard, and Micky tumbled to the floor.

"Oww." He managed, holding back a sob.

"Oh Jesus, you okay buddy?" Michael knelt next to the younger man. Peter couldn't help but smile at his ability to be kind when it was needed. _Of course he can be kind, he's got a little kid. _He thought.

"What are you smilin' about, Tork? I need some help over here." Michael nearly yelled. Micky's lower lip was trembling, and his eyes looked curiously shiny. "Right, Mick, which ankle is it?"

"L-left."

"I'll try not to jostle that one too much. You holler if it hurts, okay?" Michael's voice was soothing, his Texas drawl smooth and sweet as warm honey. "Hang in there shotgun, this might hurt." Michael tucked one arm behind Micky's knees and the other behind his back. Grunting a little, he scooped the actor off the ground.

"Ha, I'm the princess, and you're my knight in shining armor." Micky tried to laugh as a tear escaped.

"I ain't no knight. Pete, go find Ralfeson or Schneider, anybody." Michael ordered.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, I _am _underweight. I suppose it isn't too hard to carry me. I remember this one time when I was doing "Circus Boy." I fell off the elephant, and they had to carry me off set because I was out cold. Of course then I was eleven. Am I heavy Mike?" Micky was talking a mile a minute, and Michael was getting tired of it.

"No. Be quiet."

"Oh, okay." Micky lapsed into sullen silence. Peter opened another door and held it for Michael.

"Are we there yet? Where are we even going?" Micky was tired of being quiet, and didn't really like being carried.

"Shut up." Michael replied, frustration coloring his voice.

"I'm sorry." Micky whimpered. He glanced in the direction they were going. Down. Stairs. He felt Michael's body tense, and pressed himself closer to his chest, sticking his fuzzy head under Michael's chin.

"Quit that! You ain't Christian." Michael said angrily, but he couldn't do anything about it. Why he had to be the father to everybody, he would never understand. Christian, his son, was a bouncy two year old that loved being carried around. _Ev'rybody I know is just so darn helpless. _He thought.

Sighing into Micky's curls, Michael tightened his grip and walked carefully down the stairs. His bare toes were slowly turning to ice. He tried to use them to his advantage, be like a real monkey and curl them around the edges of the stairs to keep his balance, but it didn't work. _Maybe because I'm the worst Monkee. I'm too grown up. _He thought bitterly.

He didn't even know where they were going, he was just following Peter. They reached the landing and he stopped to catch his breath. He realized that he was doing this unconsciously. Any other day, he would have raised hell about following Peter's lead. The blond, hippie, jack-of-all-trades was so different from his character on the show.

Peter Halsten Thorkleson had a memory like a machine. He was wise beyond his years, and cool as a cucumber. Peter knew what he was doing in every situation. If someone had a problem, they came to him. He was always willing to stop and listen.

_And I've been a jerk to him these past few months. _Michael thought. He felt his face grow hot. _He was always there for me, and I've just stomped all over him. _Micky noticed something was wrong.

"Wassamatter Mike? Am I getting heavy?" He asked, slipping into the familiar "Mike" in concern. Michael didn't bother to correct him.

"Nope buddy. Just thinkin'." He replied.

"Take notes everybody! Robert Michael Nesmith is THINKING!" Micky bellowed.

"Dammit Mick, don't do that!" Michael exclaimed, almost dropping the excitable fuzzball. "And it's Michael." Michael hated being called 'Robert' even more than 'Mike'. Robert was his daddy; the no-good lay about who left him when he was just a kid.

"Yes ma'am." Micky looked at him, a huge grin lighting up his face. Michael suppressed a chuckle.

"You're a piece of work. Right Peter, let's go." Peter nodded and opened the door. As Michael walked by, the hippie kept his head down. Michael made a mental note to apologize once Micky was taken care of.


	3. Chapter 3

As Peter followed Michael and Micky through the door, he heard a familiar yell.

"DADDY!" Cried a shrill voice. Peter looked around the bulk of Micky/Michael to see Christian Nesmith running to his father as fast as his little legs could carry him. He wrapped his chubby California-brown arms around one of Michael's legs.

"Hey there, partner." Michael grinned, a genuine smile that Peter hadn't seen in a while.

"Hi Micky!"

"Howdy." Micky tipped an imaginary hat, quite to the little fella's amusement.

"Why's Daddy carrying you, Micky?" Christian wanted to know.

"Micky hurt his foot, and he can't walk." Michael explained.

"Why'd he hurt his foot?"

"Why do you always have to know everything?" Michael chuckled, tousling his son's dirty blond hair. "And where's your momma?"

"Davy's taking care of me. Momma went shopping." The little boy smiled like it was the second coming of Christmas.

"Oh Phyllis." Michael muttered, rolling his eyes skyward. "Alright, c'mon. We've gotta go take care of Micky." He walked to the kitchen, kicked open the door, and set Micky down on the counter. Christian bounced in, holding Peter's hand.

"Need any help Michael?" He asked.

"I might. Son, where's Davy?" said Michael as he rummaged through the cabinets.

"I dunno." The youngest Nesmith scrambled into a chair. "He said there was a bird he wanted to talk to. Do British people usually talk to birds?" The room erupted in laughter.

"Probably wanted to do a little more than talk!" Micky exclaimed.

"Davy will have all the mothers in Los Angeles after him before too long." Said Peter.

"They'll be wondering where all their daughters' clothes have gotten to!" Micky said, a boyish grin on his face.

"But they might not mind once they learn exactly _who _is relieving their daughters of their garments."

"Guys, guys, there's an innocent mind present." Michael admonished lightly. They all looked to Christian, who was happily playing with Peter's beads.

"Sweet naiveté. I miss it." Peter sighed. He watched as his beads were rolled around the table, clinking and clacking. Christian didn't know what they meant, he didn't know that they were to remind people to love. Peace and love come naturally to children. They don't understand war or hatred. It just doesn't make sense to them.

_You don't understand why your daddy doesn't like me. Or why I'm so frustrated with him. _Peter let his head sink into his hands. _Musicians' tempers run hot, that's why. We're perfectionists. If we've got a problem with somebody, we don't hide it. That's why we make music. If we didn't, we'd likely go around yelling at people. _

The frustrated musician looked at the grains in the table. He stared at them intently until his eyes crossed and his head started to hurt. He most certainly didn't want to look at Michael. Michael was wrapping Micky's foot, by the sound of quiet cursing echoing around the room. Every once in a while, the steady stream of vulgarity was broken by a half-hearted joke. The beads just kept rolling, thumping unevenly on the old warped wood.

Peter felt a gentle poke on his shoulder, hot breath on his arm.

"What's wrong?" A small voice asked. Peter turned his head to see Christian looking at him with Michael's eyes. The concern in those eyes touched him. He hadn't seen Michael look at him that way since Peter popped Davy in the jaw. Peter had run from the scene, and Michael caught him in the parking lot.

Michael put his hands on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks.

"Where're you goin' so fast, shotgun?" He had asked in a teasing voice. Peter looked up, tears shining in his eyes.

"I'm going to kill myself." His was the voice of a tortured man.

"Peter, what are you talkin' about? What happened?" A light rain had begun to fall, and little drops were catching in Michael's black hair.

"I- I hit Davy." Peter said, looking back at the ground.

"Sometimes the little sucker needs to be smacked, it's okay Pete."

"No, it isn't. It's never okay to hit someone. I just betrayed everything I stand for." He tried to swallow the quiver out of his voice.

"Honestly buddy, you're overreacting. We all screw up sometimes. You know how I believe God can cure anything? Well sometimes I take a pill or three when the hangovers get bad. Nobody's perfect." Michael said. Peter looked up in shock. Michael rarely talked about religion. "C'mere." As he was crushed into a hug, Peter smiled. Michael was a hands-off kinda guy, so when he gave you a hug, you knew he meant it.


End file.
